


Other

by TangoDancer



Series: Flower in Adversity [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Back to Earth, Blood, Established Relationship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Lance, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-01 07:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10917585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangoDancer/pseuds/TangoDancer
Summary: Alfonso watches his brother break down, alone on the porch at night, listening to a nameless person’s steady heartbeat. He watches, and he feels resentment stir into his gut, against the universe who took away his little brother and gave back this broken parody of him. Against himself, for not having stopped it somehow. Against Voltron for choosing him, and the empire for starting this war in the first place.And against this mysterious person, for keeping an essential part of his brother’s soul with them, and making it impossible for him to be happy with them the way it used to be. The way it should be.ORLance's family struggle to come to terms with the man their son and brother has become.





	Other

**Author's Note:**

> This work includes PTSD flashbacks and anxiety attacks, as well as some Spanish words. I'm an expert in none of those fields, so please let me know if I got anything horribly wrong.

A peal of laughter rings out through the cool morning air. Seated in a comfortable wicker chair on the porch, Alfonso watches two surprised birds take off. He turns to look inside, where Lance is grinning at their mother, looking proud of himself even as both Elena and Aleja laugh helplessly at the scene. The kids are there, too, waiting impatiently for breakfast. They don’t really remember their cousin or big brother—they were only two, four and six when he disappeared, after all, but they took to him like fish to water. If one thing has remained the same, at least, it’s Lance’s charisma. He’s still loud and easy-going, as open as he was before.

Or so he seems.

He doesn’t know if anyone else noticed—Aleja, maybe, she always was the sharpest of them all, but there’s something behind the jokes and the laughter, something different. Quiet and serious and almost _dark_ in a way that scares Al. Because his Lance, the Lance he knew, his eyes were as clear as a cloudless summer sky. He was warm and bright and an open book, but this one… His gaze is deeper than the open sea, and there’s a lot he doesn’t say. He says he told them everything, about that war in space, about being chosen as a Paladin of Voltron, whatever that really means, about helping to free _the universe_ of a 10,000-year-tyranny.

But every war has its undersides, Al knows this. And while Lance _appears_ just as bright and carefree as he used to be, Al is sure there’s something more, something which a thirty-minute summary didn't capture. The way he moves, for one. It’s different. His every gesture flows like water, fluid like it never was before, and there’s a keen intelligence to the way he watches everything that makes Al uneasy. The way he takes in every room he walks into can’t be natural either. The way he cries out at night, and quickly muffles himself, even less so.

No, his brother has seen war, there’s no doubt about it. And for all that he’d like to pretend he’s the same as when he left, he’s not. Because, Al muses as they all sit down for breakfast, the table loud and animated in a way it hasn’t been for almost a decade, even now that he’s returned after seven long years, Lance is fucking distracted. That phone-like device he came back with sits on the table by his plate, and he keeps glancing at it, then at his watch, the sky, as if waiting for something.

Even their parents have noticed. The table quiets down a little, everyone glancing at the deepening line between Lance’s brows in growing worry.

“Lance?” Mom finally asks when he spears a potato with far much more viciousness than it deserves. “Is everything alright, _amor_?”

Lance’s head snaps up. His fork clatters loudly against his plate, and for a second, his hand hovers over his thigh, as if reaching for a weapon. Whatever he was thinking about, Al gets the sinking feeling that Lance forgot all about where he is. Then, his expression clears, eyes wide and hand sheepishly rubbing at the back of his head as he tries to laugh it off. But Al can’t forget that cold, cold expression, those frozen blue eyes as he’d thought he was in danger, and he knows when he meets Aleja’s gaze over the table that she won’t dismiss it either. And neither will their father and uncle, whose keen eyes are even now riveted on Lance’s grinning face.

It’s only one incident, but there are many similar ones. Small, almost unremarkable, and easily dismissed as chance. Like the way Lance spins into a defensive stance when someone shouts a curse behind him, or the way his fingers find a knife and hold it with ease when a plate shatters out of his line of sight. It’s how he won’t take off his shirt at the beach, even when he goes swimming. He who used to walk around all day with only a pair of swimming trunks on.

It’s not much, but it’s there, and Al doesn’t know what to do with it.

So that night, when he catches Lance sneaking past the door, he gestures for dad and Aleja to be silent and goes to investigate, the other two close on his heels as he inches closer, making every effort to be quiet.

Lance is sitting on the porch, in the dark, with the door open. The small alien device is lit up a bright blue, highlighting the angular planes of his face, and a regular sound comes from it. A soft, regular beep. Almost like a heartbeat. His eyes are closed as his listens religiously, lips moving slightly. Counting, maybe. He looks exhausted. 

“Hey,” he says after a while, and Al feels himself jump. Are they discovered? But Lance’s eyes are still closed, and he hasn’t moved. “How are you doing?”

He pauses, reclines in his chair, the very same one Al sat in this morning, musing about him. 

“It’s only been ten days, and I—I miss seeing your face. The bed is cold, and I wake up alone at night, and it’s _dark_ , and I—” he chokes. “I can’t do this without you, _cielo mio_. I miss your voice, and I miss your arms, and even your stupid _hair_ …” He takes a deep breath. “It’s all your fault, you know. I’ve been distracted, and Al noticed, of course. Maybe Aleja, too, I’m not sure. I can’t read them as well as I used to. It’s weird, right? I mean, we were so close, no secrets. Open books, the lot of us. But I—I can’t tell them, you know? You swore to get me back to Earth, to them, and for the longest time, that promise was everything, because God knows that you’re one loyal son of a bitch, but…”

He presses a hand to his eyes. His tears glisten in the device’s light.

“But without you it’s just not the same.”

He chokes on a sob, his face lifted towards the stars.

“I need you.”

Alfonso watches his brother break down, alone on the porch at night, listening to a nameless person’s steady heartbeat. He watches, and he feels resentment stir into his gut, against the universe who took away his little brother and gave back this broken parody of him. Against himself, for not having stopped it somehow. Against Voltron for choosing him, and the empire for starting this war in the first place.

And against this mysterious person, for keeping an essential part of his brother’s soul with them, and making it impossible for him to be happy with his family the way he used to be. The way he should be. 

* * *

It goes on like this.

With every passing day, Lance’s smiles grow more forced, and his eyes, sadder. Sometimes, he’ll look over his shoulder, a twinkle in his eyes and his mouth already forming a name, only for it to click shut and for the grin to fade as he realizes whoever he was about to call isn’t there. Every night without fail, he sits on the porch and listens to that steady beeping. And he talks, and talks, and talks. He talks with more honesty than he’s displayed since his return, and Al wishes he could say he feels guilty about eavesdropping, but what else is he to do to discover how his brother really feels?

It’s his brother, his little brother, and he used to know everything about him, used to be the one Lance would run up to or call as soon as something significant happened in his life. But things have changed, and even the girls, even their mother and aunts and uncles sometimes come join him to sit in the dark and listen to Lance’s broken ramblings. It’s not always in English. Most of the time, it’s in an alien language, filled with edges and yet flowing like a river at the same time, but his expression and his tone say it all.

Whoever that person is, they’re essential to Lance.

Al knows he’s not the only one uncertain as to where they stand on that. This person stole Lance from them, made it impossible for him to be satisfied with just them, his _family_ , the way it used to be. They’re _hurting_ him. But would their return mean his happiness? And if they didn’t like it here? If they wanted to leave forever, go back to space? If they’re an alien living on another planet altogether? What then? Will he follow them, disappear again, forever this time? 

* * *

It’s late, the sun already starting to set behind the horizon, and most everybody else has left the beach. The McClains are alone, enjoying having the place to themselves. Lance is sitting on his towel, his chin on his knees and his eyes gazing unseeingly at the ocean.

A strange beeping sound rises from his pocket, and he jumps, scrambles. The alien device is lighting up, and suddenly, there’s a man standing there, his form blue and slightly transparent, and— _are his ears pointed?_ He tugs at the corner of his thick moustache, a crease of worry between his eyebrows, but Lance is speaking before he can place a word.

Kneeling in the sand with his brows furrowed and his tan skin white as a sheet, he almost looks like he’s sick. He speaks loud and fast, blurting sentence after sentence, and the questioning inflection at the end of each is obvious enough even for those who don’t speak the language.

The man says something, sounding harried, and Lance falls silent for a second, mouth gaping in shock. A few more sentences, hesitant and broken, and…

“What _the quiznak_ do you mean, he’s _gone_?”

“I—he’s… the pod was empty…and Red…”

“Red what? What about her? Where is she, what happened?”

“She’s gone, too. We don’t know where she is yet, I called as soon as we noticed…”

“When you _noticed?_ You swore somebody would be there at all times! How could you leave him to wake up _alone_ , I can’t even—” He gulps in a quick breath, eyes wide and unseeing, obviously unaware of the attention he’s getting, or the fact that he switched languages in the middle of the conversation. Al wonders at the ease with which the pointy-eared man followed.

But Lance’s muttering to himself now, the man’s attempts to comfort him going unheeded, and what he’s saying makes Al’s heart drop. “I shouldn’t have left,” he moans as he tugs at his hair, “I should never have left him alone. He needed me, and I—”

His head snaps up.

“Lance?” The man tries, only to be shushed.

Lance jumps to his feet, craning his neck to look at the sky.

“Lance?” The man tries again. “What is it?”

He takes three steps in the sand, just three. He stands there, tilts his head a little, as if listening to something only he can hear, his eyes unwavering.

And then, suddenly, his entire posture shifts. His shoulders draw back, his muscles loosen, and a slow smile stretches over his lips. The transparent man is smiling now, too, Al absently notices, but it’s of no consequence compared to Lance’s expression right now. It’s almost like before, the old Lance, happy and carefree. Almost, not quite, but it’s so close…

“I can hear her,” he murmurs, as if in a daze. Then, louder: “She’s coming!”

And right as he says it, something appears in the night sky, a burning comet of cold blue light hurtling straight for them, and Lance is grinning like a loon even as he watches the gigantic red lion—and holy shit, he's heard Lance's story, they all have, but somehow, it never computed that those lions could be so _huge_ —come to a stop over the beach before lowering itself onto the sand. The earth shakes as it makes contact, and both Mom and Tia Jacinta gather the kids close, but Lance rushes forward instead. He pats its gigantic nose when the machine lowers its head, grinning as a low rumble shakes the ground, and then _its giant maw opens_ , and Al isn’t the only one to lurch forward, reaching out to drag him back, because they just got him back and they can’t see him be eaten right in front of them…

But there’s a figure walking down the ramp, unsteady and clad in white, and Lance is suddenly frozen in place, staring stupidly. It reminds Al of his brother’s crush on Mariana from school when he was fourteen, and he lost all pretenses of motor and speech control whenever she was in the vicinity.

The lion straightens as soon as the man steps onto the sand. He pats her giant claw as if she were just an oversized pet, never breaking stride on his way to Lance, until there’s only a foot or so between them.

Al edges closer, wary of disturbing whatever is happening, but ready to intervene if need be. He draws comfort from Aleja and Elena’s steady presences at his side, from Mom and Dad’s breathing behind him, the others all around them like a guard of honor.

Neither Lance nor the newcomer notice them.  

“Hi, cargo pilot,” he says after a moment, his tone dry like the desert, and Al gapes in disbelief. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. This is the person whose absence has been steadily destroying his brother, and yet... Lance has always been sensitive about being a cargo pilot. His dream was to get into the fighter class, and to just drop it like that, in such a dry, emotionless tone! Al doesn’t like it, not at all. He doesn’t like this man.

Going by his family’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips, he’s not the only one.

Trembling hands reach up to frame the man's face, and he leans into the touch, eyes sliding half-shut.

“You’re awake.”

The grin is gone. On Lance’s features, there’s only pure desperation and relief. Violet eyes soften. His palms cover Lance’s.

“I’m awake.” He pauses, inching closer. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

His fingers flutter down, caressing the back of Lance’s hands and up his arms, just the tips, until one hand is tangled into the short hair at his nape, and the other clasps his shoulder.

Lance breaks.

Surging forward, their lips mold together in a desperate kiss, bodies pressing together with an ease and familiarity that speak of years of intimacy. A pale arm wraps around Lance’s waist tightly, fabric bunching into the newcomer’s fist, and when they break the kiss, Lance tucks his chin into the man’s shoulder even as he does the same, eyes closed and fingers tangling into hair as they hug like they haven’t seen each other in years instead of days, like this is the last time and the first, like there will be no tomorrow.

They end up on their knees in the sand, brow to brow, and in the silence, only broken by the backwash, the meaning of an alien sentence pronounced and returned is crystal clear.

* * *

The man’s name is Keith. He’s the Red Paladin, and he and Lance have been together for four years already. Al examines him critically. The white suit he’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, but he’s well-muscled, his body leaner and a little shorter than Lance’s. His hair is too long, black tresses cascading over his shoulders and framing deep purple eyes. They’re dark, those eyes. Just like Lance's, they flicker restlessly from side to side in search of any hint of danger, but they lack the warmth and light of a good-natured soul. The scar, the _purple_ scar that runs from his forehead to his cheek only adds to that.

He barely says a few words after he’s introduced to the family, and his entire posture is stiff and tense, features impassive, and how the hell did Lance fall for…for _that_? Was it because there was no one else? Was he _forced_?

Al frowns, but there are no hints of coercion on Lance’s part. In fact, were he to stand any closer to the other man, they would be on top of each other. And when Lance wraps an arm around his waist to bring him in even closer, Keith goes willingly, his body suddenly pliant even as he quirks a small smile when Lance quips something in that alien language of theirs.

“Are you alright?” Mom’s sudden question in the middle of Lance’s retelling of his and Keith’s meeting in the desert makes head turn as they wonder who she’s addressing. It’s Keith, whose eyes are half-shut, weight resting heavily against Lance’s shoulder.

Lance turns instantly, craning his neck to take a good look at Keith’s face, and that’s when the Red Paladin collapses.

Lance follows him to the ground, ignoring the rest of the family as they crowd around them. Nobody’s concerned enough to ask any questions, but they’re not ones to leave someone in need unattended, any of them. Lance, on the other hand, sounds out of his mind with worry. His hands hover up and down Keith’s body, his side especially, delicately tracing a specific pattern and applying the tiniest amount of pressure. Looking for what, Al isn’t sure, but Lance seems relieved by the time Keith’s eyes flutter open, looking glazed over. They sharpen as soon as Lance calls out his name, though.

“Why did you leave before your healing cycle was complete?” Lance’s tone is soft but firm, and carries so much disapproval Al finds himself straightening his shoulders in response.

“I didn’t…”

“You totally did. You’re not healed yet, your wound is barely closed. And how the quiznak did you even do that? The pods aren’t supposed to open until you’re fully healed!”

Keith stays silent for a long moment, long enough for Al to think he won’t answer, and animosity to rear again in his gut. His eyes flutter as if he was fighting for consciousness, before sliding closed.

“You said you needed me.”

Lance chokes, eyes instantly welling up with tears. He hunches over Keith, lips pressing against his forehead.

“You idiot,” he says, his voice thick with tears. “I thought we established years ago that we weren’t supposed to do that anymore.”

Pale fingers weave between tan ones. Keith’s hands are shaking.

“If you fall, I fall, though, remember?” And there’s the tiniest smirk quirking up at the corner of his lips, the pale reflection of his usual personality, Al thinks.

Lance smiles, gathers him in his arms.

“Well now that you’re here, you’re staying in bed until I’m sure you’re 100% healed.”

Keith heaves a long-suffering groan, but his lips are still twitching at the corners, and Al gets the feeling that this isn’t the first time they have a similar discussion.

“I can walk,” he protests, but that only prompts Lance to tighten his grip on him. Keith glances up at him, and he must see something on his face, because he doesn’t protest again. His head comes to rest against Lance’s shoulder, and his eyes slide close again. They disappear up the stairs as soon as they make it back to the house, Lance taking the steps with enviable ease despite the full-grown man in his arms.

* * *

Lance barely shows his face for the next three days. He waltzes up and down the stairs, grabs food for Keith and disappears until his guest needs something else. Mom says to leave them be, that they have to let them enjoy their reunion, and Al tries, but…

Well. They barely got him back before they realized he’d been stolen by something else, someone much more powerful than they are. Lance’s eyes are much brighter than they’ve been since he first returned, and there’s a bounce to his step they thought the war destroyed. He’s louder, too, cracks jokes whenever he’s around, and Al actually heard him laugh a few times. Not that shallow, twisted parody of a laugh they’ve been hearing, but a true, genuine one, filled with joy. He’s Lance again. A little older, a little darker, but he’s Lance.

And Keith’s the one holding the key.

* * *

They finally emerge on the fourth day. Keith’s wearing a pair of Lance’s pants—a little too big, rolled up at the bottom, a black t-shirt and an open red shirt on top of that. When Al walks into the kitchen, mom, dad and the girls are sitting at the table, while Keith and Lance make breakfast. Al’s surprise at them not offering to help is quickly assuaged as he finds himself captivated by the sight of them.

They move in tandem, silently. They don’t need words to anticipate each other’s actions, and they maneuver around the other like it’s become second nature, like they’re one mind in two bodies. Keith reaches out one hand, palm up. Lance throws a knife. It’s caught perfectly, put to good use, tossed into the sink with eerie precision. Lance tilts his head, and Keith volleys tomatoes at him, which he catches with ease.

When they finally bring the food to the table, they don’t seem surprised to have an audience.

“Wow,” Elena deadpans, "that was creepy".

“What was?”

“That! The— the telepathy, or whatever…” she waves her hand in the hair, but really, there are no words to qualify what just happened.

“She means the teamwork,” Al supplies drily when the silence draws out.

They glance at each other. Keith tilts his head, Lance shrugs. Al _hates_ it all with a passion, that way they have of having an entire conversation with their eyes. It’s not fair that this man, this _stranger_ took his place, their place in Lance’s life.

“Team work is important when you’re a part of Voltron,” Keith explains after a minute. “Knowing each other and predicting our actions can make the difference between life and death.”

“So you’re like this with all the others, too?” Aleja asks suspiciously, ignoring the way mom and dad tense at the mention of lethal situations.

Keith hesitates. “Well… not really, no.”

“What does that even mean?” Their cousin Tim pipes up around a mouthful of pancakes. Jacinta, his mother, reprimands him quietly, but it’s obvious that she’s more interested in the answer than her son’s lack of manners. The question makes something in Al ease, though, because while Tim is usually pretty accepting of strangers, his tone was anything but friendly. He doesn’t like Keith either.

Lance’s eyes narrow, flickering from one person to the next, and something flashes over his face that has Al sitting up in alarm. It’s gone before he can identify it, but he’s sure the way his brother deliberately slings his arm over Keith’s shoulders and brings him close is a statement.

“He means that we’re a team, Keith and me. A team within the team. We’re more attuned to each other than to the others because we’ve been fighting as a pair for years.”

“I bet sleeping together must help,” Aleja snorts inelegantly.

Lance’s grin is strained. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

“And doesn’t that, like, hinder you during missions? Isn’t there a no-fraternization rule or something?”

Keith stiffens. Instantly, Lance’s long fingers start rubbing at the nape of his neck, playing with his hair. Al wonders if he knows he’s doing it. Given the way he seems entirely focused on the discussion at hand, he doubts it.

“Oh, believe me, we tried, at first.” Lance grins, suddenly, bright and open as he nudges at Keith. “Remember when we thought it’d mess up the team if we got together?”

The man groans. “That was awful.”

“ _You_ were awful.”

“Excuse me, I was in perfect control.”

“Yeah, right. You were so terrified of leaking that we were all scared stiff.”

“Yeah? How about you, Mr. Let’s-hide-my-feelings-by-being-a-complete-jerk?”

Lance’s arm retracts, only for him to lean forward, a challenging look on his face. Keith mirrors him. The smirk playing at his lips is infuriating.

“Well at least _I_ didn’t suddenly decide to take on Zarkon all by myself.”

“Funny you should mention that. I distinctly remember you rushing into a bunch of hostile Karjeroos by yourself.”

“They were _eating_ you!”

“You got trampled!”

“I was fine!”

“Well so was I!”

They cross their arms simultaneously. Al watches with growing bewilderment, and draws some comfort from the identical looks on confusion on his family’s faces.

“Erm…”

Al recoils at the twin looks of annoyance suddenly turned on him. They soften once they realize who they’re looking at.

“Anyway,” Lance continues like nothing just happened. “Who wants some strawberries?”

Keith rolls his eyes, snatches the bowl from him, helps himself and passes it down the table. Al has a hard time not sneering at him. Aleja has no such holdups.

“Rude,” she snorts into her plate.

The man hunches his shoulders a little. At least he has some shame.

“Don’t mind Keith,” Lance immediately interjects. “He grew up in a sewer.”

Keith scoffs but says nothing.

He remains quiet until the end of the meal. And the one after that. And the one after that. In fact, he doesn’t say a word—or touch anything, Lance has to pass him food for him to hold plates—unless somebody talks to him first, which, considering that the whole family hates him, isn’t much. Lance tries, of course, he wouldn’t be Lance if he didn’t, but he only gets three-word-answers at best, which doesn’t seem to dampen his spirits that much. 

* * *

The first time they fight, Al nearly has a heart attack. Like Mom and Elena, he's an early riser, so he's used to not having a very clear mind before he's had his coffee. Which is why he beelines for the kitchen as soon as he steps out of his room, pulling a mug out of the cupboard before heading straight for the coffee pot. It's only after he takes the first sip and feels the fog lift off his brain that he starts wondering where Mom and Elena could be. It's unusual for them to wander away from the kitchen before they've finished breakfast, and a glance at the wall clock confirms it's nowhere near late enough for them to be done. 

Shrugging to himself, he heads for the terrace, fully intending on stealing the rocking chair for himself and enjoying the morning quiet, but a flash of movement has him speeding up, all plans forgotten, as Lance tumbles head over heels onto the ground, Keith following in a whirlwind of black. Lance jumps to his feet before Keith can reach him, however, and then they're trading blows, moving back and forth in a complicated dance as their limbs strike, defend and dodge. 

"What's going on?" Al mutters. 

"I think they're...sparring?" 

Al jumps. He hadn't even noticed Mom and Elena were here, but they're sitting at the table, watching. 

"Seems a little brutal for sparring, doesn't it?" Elena, although more soft-spoken than Aleja, is straightforward in her way. Mornings are typically when she doesn't have her filters on yet, and therefore the best time to get her to voice her thoughts uncensored.

Lance slams his booted foot into Keith's stomach. The man stumbles, flips backwards and onto his hands until he's back on his feet, knees flexed and hands up in a defensive stance.

"Are you pulling your punches?" He smirks, and Lance grins back. 

"I don't know, dude, it doesn't feel right to go all out on an invalid."

Keith's eyes narrow. "Oh, you're gonna regret that one." The last word sounds is in that alien language, and Al would bet his hair that it's some sort of insult. But Keith moves before he can check Lance's reaction, and then they're trading blows again, faster than before, harder. They kick, punch and parry, flip and turn, and it's brutal, but mesmerizing at the same time, and Al just can't bring himself to look away. 

Elena shamelessly cheers Lance on, and he finds himself joining his voice to hers in encouragement, although their brother really doesn't look like he needs it. In the end, Keith manages to bring him down and he hits the ground with a breathless huff, only to sweep the man's legs out from under him. Keith collapses on top of him and stays right there, panting. Sweat-dampened black strands stick to his forehead, and after a while, he tosses his head back to get them out of the way, swiping impatiently at a few rebels locks with a gloved hand before looking back down at Lance, who's slowly regaining his breath, his eyes to the sky. 

Pale fingers brush against a dark jaw, and ocean blue eyes drift down and up to Keith's face. Lance's lips stretch into a small smile, before he surges up to peck Keith's lips. The man melts into his embrace, and when Lance's head falls back to the grass, he follows suit to brush his mouth over Lance's grin. Al wonders whether to interrupt or retreat when it looks like things are going to heat up, but Elena takes the choice straight out of his hands by clearing her throat. Loudly. 

They don't spring apart. With a display like this, it seemed obvious that they hadn't noticed their audience, but Al's starting to think that very little escapes this new Lance. The two part, yes, but Keith simply greets them politely before laying his head on Lance's chest, while Lance grins at them, waving his free hand cheerfully. 

"That was brutal!" Elena says, and Al admires how she finds the perfect inflexion to make it impossible to discern whether it's a compliment or a disapproving comment. "I never thought you could move like that, Lance!" 

He grins. "I know, right! I'm amazing."

Keith snorts and pokes him in the side, hard.

"Yeah, yeah, Keithy, you're not bad either." Lance smirks, petting the sweaty black hair, before making a show of pulling his hand away with a grimace. "Ew, gross! You need a shower, dude!" 

Keith grumbles something decidedly unflattering, given Lance's expression of righteous indignation, and it's all actually pretty funny to watch, Al can't deny it. There's comfortable intimacy in the way their arms fit around each other, legs tangled and breaths synchronized, in the crook of Lance's smile and the way Keith's muscles are, for once, completely loose.

His eyes follow the slow, almost hypnotic movement of Lance's hand as it rubs Keith's side. There's something very gentle, very delicate in each movement, each touch of his fingers against bare skin, and it's only then that Al, with a jolt, realizes that they're both bare-chested, and that the skin Lance's fingers brush against is raised and a deep purple. A scar, he realizes with sinking dread. Just like the one on his face, except this one is a jagged mess of crisscrossing horror, telling of a life-threatening injury. Wider than Lance's palm and almost reaching out to Keith's hip, it's darker than the one on his face, or any of the others— _all the others_ that Al is now noticing. 

Rounded scars, straight lines, burns, jagged and smooth, recent and faded. There are so many of them, several of which he's sure must have been near fatal, and suddenly, he's struck with the need to see Lance's chest, his back, and his eyes trail over what skin he can see. His arms are lean, muscled, and the scars stand out in stark contrast to his dark skin. Al counts three burns and two slices.

On this arm only.

He can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed when Lance slips on his shirt before Al can get a glimpse of his back.       

* * *

Al is ripped out of his sleep by a bloodcurdling scream. Lunging out of bed, he rushes down the hallway and follows the voice. Lance's voice. Footsteps thunder up and down the stairs. There's light coming from Lance's room, urgent pleading. Al barges into the room right in time to see Mom stumble back in shock as Lance lashes out and catches her in the shoulder. 

"Lance!" she calls out, desperately, but Lance doesn't answer. His eyes are wide open but unseeing, and his breathing comes out in short bursts, almost gasps. 

Dad steps forward to try and wake him up, but his hands barely brush against Lance's shoulders before he strikes again, this time with a solid uppercut. Dad stumbles back with a shout of pain. Al takes a step forward, wary but ready to try. Al barely evades the following attack, and suddenly they're grappling on the floor, Dad helping as they try to immobilize Lance. It's difficult, though, because as tall and broad-shouldered as he is, Lance is also nimble as hell, and  _strong_. 

Then, suddenly, there are fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, and he's abruptly pulled up and back. "What are you doing?" Keith fumes quietly, eyes blazing. "Are you crazy? You're making it worse!" 

But he doesn't say anything more, because Lance sweeps his legs out from under him and he goes down heavily. His body hits the floor with a thud. 

 _What do you plan to do now?_ Al screams inwardly.  _Do you have a better solution?_  

Because short of letting Lance kill him, there really isn't one that he can see. Al swallows hard. He's heard of flashbacks before, of course. Of PTSD and how, sometimes, the memories are so strong the person can't see or feel the real world. He watches with baited breath, waits for Keith to fight back, to forcefully restrain Lance. He's seen him fight, he knows they're more or less evenly matched. But Lance is straddling him, hands around his throat, and Keith...

Keith doesn't move.

He lays there, his arms limp by his side, and he starts talking in a slow, even tone. Al catches Lance's name several times, always rolling off his tone like it's second nature, and something so very precious. Lance's fingers keep tightening, digging into the soft flesh of Keith's exposed neck. Al feels his heart skip a beat when he sees the first droplets of red. They gather under Lance's tan skin until they start running down Keith's skin in small rivulets.

The Red Paladin still doesn't make a move to defend himself, and it's only when sharp purple eyes meet his, a clear warning, that Al realizes he moved forward. He stops instantly. Keith keeps talking even when his breathing turns into a wheeze and he starts choking on his words. Lance freezes. He sits very still, his head tilted slightly and his eyes, wide and unseeing, riveted to Keith's face. Slowly, pale hands come up to his sides, and Keith wraps him up in a hug and pulls him forward gently. He snaps upright a few inches away from Keith's bare chest.

"Keith?"

"I'm here," Keith says, in English this time.

"You're here," Lance repeats. "You're here. What—"

He pauses. His fingers loosen. His hands shake as he brings them up to eye level, stares at the blood smeared on his palms. A wordless cry of pure despair rips from his lips as he realizes what he's done. Words tumble out of his mouth, barely articulated and carrying the higher pitch of growing panic.

Keith sighs, and any concern Al might have felt toward him vanishes instantly, because this is a serious PTSD attack, Lance is suffering, and if he's going to sound that put upon, then he has no place here.

"Hey," Keith says as his hands come up to frame Lance's face, turning it none too gently to force him into making eye contact. "hey."

Lance's jaw clicks shut. He stares back at Keith, blue to purple, his eyes wide and full of tears.

"None of that," Keith murmurs before switching to that alien language again. Lance interrupts after only a few sentences, though, his tone full of horror and fear, and Keith's voice turns harsher and harsher as the reassurances turn into an obvious argument. 

This is so wrong. So wrong. Al doesn't know anything about PTSD or how to handle flashbacks and nightmares, but he's pretty sure yelling at the person is pretty high on the list of things to avoid. Yet here Keith is, his sentences short and clipped, his eyes hard as flint, his grip like a vice on Lance's face. Al wants to rip those hands away from his brother's face, but he knows that his intervention would be unwelcome. Lance isn't ready for that, not yet. If he's been in a relationship with Keith for years, there's no way a mere few weeks on Earth will open his eyes on how unhealthy this is, and how bad Keith is for him. 

* * *

He's up at dawn the next morning, as usual, but what's out of the ordinary is that so is the rest of the family. They're all gathered in the kitchen, tired and silent, most of them staring into their coffee like it holds the answers to every question in the universe. 

Al knows exactly how they feel. He didn't sleep a wink either.

Mom shoots him a weak smile as he walks in. He helps himself to some sweet nectar, and then grabs a seat and settles in to wait with them.

It's only a few minutes before Keith appears in the doorway. He pauses as he sees them, eyes flickering from one face to another. If he realizes what's going to happen, he doesn't show it. Instead, he nods at them all in greeting, then pours himself a mug of coffee. Black, like his heart.

Then he turns, mug cradled in between his palms, leans against the counter, and waits.

It doesn't take long for somebody to crack.

"I think we deserve an explanation," Dad says, and oh, that tone is no good. He's angry, and he better get his answers or there'll be hell to pay. Al would know.

Keith takes his sweet time replying. Whether it's because he wants to be contrary or because he's choosing his words carefully, Al isn't sure, but the silence is quickly growing stifling, and he wishes the man would give them answers already. 

"Lance has nightmares," Keith starts, only for Aleja's "no shit, Sherlock" to interrupt almost instantly. Purple eyes narrowing at her, he takes a sip of his coffee. "We all do. It's part of having been at war for seven years. You see things you can't ever forget. And sometimes, when you're triggered, they come back to haunt you when you least expect it."

"PTSD, then," Al concludes.

Keith inclines his head at him. "Yes."

"And you know his triggers?"

"Most of them, yes. Sometimes," he frowns, one pale finger absently tracing the rim of his cup, "it just happens. We manage, though. Always have." 

"By attacking him? Yelling at him?" Aleja's aggression is plain for everyone to see, this time. The snarl is open, almost feral. Anybody else would back off instantly. 

Keith doesn't even blink. 

"If you remember correctly, I didn't lay a hand on him. And what we said is none of your business." 

"I think it is," Mom says, her voice uncharacteristically firm. "He's my son. Their brother, their cousin. He's ours. We deserve to know." 

He shakes his head minutely, a small sigh escaping from his lips. 

"Lance and I have been in a relationship for over four years now, Ma'am. We're partners, both in life and on the battlefield. Like all couples, we have our secrets, our jokes and our fights. I didn't yell at him yesterday, whatever you may believe. I've been handling his episodes for almost a decade, like he's been dealing with mine."

"So you're fine? Is that what you mean?" Elena surges from her seat. "Do you even care about him at all? He's—he's _broke_ _n_! It's obvious to anyone with eyes, and you're just standing here, not doing anything _at all_ even though it's all your fault to begin with!"  

Keith sets down his mug carefully, the porcelain clicking as it comes into contact with the countertop. 

"How is it my fault?" And he looks genuinely curious, the bastard, head tilted to the side a little like a cat, or maybe a bird... Al refuses to compare him to a puppy, because he's not.

"He wouldn't have gone to space if he hadn't followed you in the first place!"

A strange sound fills the kitchen. Keith's lips are pulled back in a mirthless grin, and it takes Al a moment to realize that he's laughing. A grim, eerie sound, one that has no place in a human's throat.

"Lance is the strategist. _We_ follow him, not the other way around." 

"You know what I mean," Elena counters, but her eyes are wide and her voice wobbles, obviously shaken. "He followed you to rescue Shiro." 

Dark eyebrows rise. "Yes, he did. And he did so of his own volition. I had no idea he was there, I didn't even know who he was." 

"He wouldn't have gone had you not been there," Dad says quietly, and that makes Keith pause for a moment. 

"Maybe, maybe not," he shrugs at last. "But I think you underestimate Lance and the lions both. even if I hadn't been there, the blue lion waited for her paladin for ten thousand years. Sooner or later, he would have found his way to her, and he would have disappeared. I was just a small cog in the machine. Unessential."

He doesn't say what he means by them underestimating Lance. Al goes to ask, only to be interrupted by a loud beeping sound. Sighing to himself, Keith pulls out the same communication device Lance has been using, and excuses himself right as three translucent silhouettes appear, one of them clearly Takashi Shirogane.

They hear him bellowing for Lance, who thunders down the stairs with an excited shout. More voices reply, all in that alien language, and when Al takes a peek, they're settling down on the couch, Keith tucked into Lance's side like he belongs there. Yet it's not the intimacy of their position that strikes him first, no. It's not Lance's arm around Keith's shoulders, a pale cheek resting on his shoulder or the entangled fingers of their free hands. Rather, it's how Lance babbles a mile a minute, and the warm smile on Keith's face, the relaxed setting of his shoulders, as if all the tension had left his body in the presence, real or not, of his teammates. 

And of course, well. The life-size holograms all over the room, lounging on invisible furniture. Three are familiar enough. There's Hunk, Lance's long time best friend, broad and muscular in a way he never was before, his face open but strong. Pidge, who'd just joined his team before they all disappeared, and who's apparently a woman, given the curves. Shiro, the pilot of the Kerberos mission, as handsome as ever even with the scar on his nose, his arm around a statuesque woman with pointy ears. And finally, the pointy-eared man with a moustache from the beach, who looks over them all with smiling eyes and the pride of a protective father. 

They're all so different, be it in race, gender and body shape, and yet... They share that same underlying calm, that core steel under the surface, and scars of all shapes and sizes, scattered over their skin, a map of pain carved into flesh. 

Looking back at Keith and Lance, though, at the way they're wrapped in each other, so much more genuine than they are with the family, so much more _open..._ (and that's not normal, it should be the other way around. Lance shouldn't feel like he has to hide his true self from them). Al makes a decision. 

* * *

"So, sparring, huh?" 

As far as ice-breakers go, it's not much, but it'll have to do. Al can't think of anything else he could open a conversation with, and he's caught them at it often enough that it won't seem too strange. Keith turns his head to look at him briefly, then returns to his contemplation of the distant, glimmering sea. 

"Do you do it often?" 

"Every day." 

"No wonder he's buff."   

Keith's lips twitch, barely. 

"Still," Al perseveres, because stubbornness is a McClain family trait, "seemed pretty brutal." 

There must be something in his voice, because the red paladin actually turns to him, and Al can see in his eyes that he has his full attention.  _Finally._

"War is brutal." 

"Sparring isn't war, though." 

"No," Keith agrees with a half-nod, "but it's training. It's supposed to prepare you to face what you'll confront in battle. And if we hold back in training, then how can we be ready when the enemy unleashes their full strength on us?"

It's the most Al's ever heard him say in one go, and he realizes now that none of them ever bothered to really approach him and get to know him. His voice holds the same slight, lilting accent as Lance's. From years speaking an alien language, no doubt. Yet another testament to Lance's years away. 

"Don't worry, though. We _do_ make sure our weapons aren't on lethal settings."  

It's probably meant to be reassuring, but Al isn't sure he feels comforted. If anything, the words "Lance" and "weapon" in the same sentence still make him nauseous. 

"How does that work? You have a... sword, right? Do you blunt it, or something?" 

Keith grimaces a little, left hand coming to cover his other wrist protectively, as if the mere thought was horrible. "I just turn on the safety mode." 

That does sound interesting. Al's always been a gamer, and to see actual weapons in real life? Count him in. Keith looks hesitant for a second, but then there's a flash of light, and suddenly he's holding a red and white sword in his right hand. Another second, and the blade is surrounded in an energy field of sorts that makes the edges blur a little. Al stares, fascinated, as Keith explains that all their weapons are different, and have their own security measures. Lance's, for example, has a stunning setting, while the green paladin, Pidge, can adjust the voltage of their primary weapon.

"So you, Pidge and Shiro are the close-range fighters, right? That means Lance stays back?"

There's something almost like pity in Keith's eyes, and Al bristles instinctively, but it's gone too fast to point out, and the man is already talking. "Not always, but sometimes, yes. He provides coverage."

And Al really, really can't help it. "Cool."

Keith smiles, lopsided and still guarded, but genuine. It changes his face completely, even with the scar contorting on his cheek, and suddenly, he doesn't look like the cold killing machine that's been prowling around the house those past few days anymore. Al doesn't get it, not really, but he thinks he can see why Lance fell for this man, just a little.

Just a little.

And honestly, someone has to make an effort. Keith didn't do anything to them. Being in space with Lance wasn't his fault. Like him, he's been fighting a war, and he bears the scars to prove it. If the way he returned to Earth is any indication, he suffered a pretty terrible injury right before they returned, too. Al doesn't understand their relationship, he really doesn't, and it still makes him uneasy, but maybe they'll open up to him if he tries, and then he'll start to get it, or at least accept it. 

So he gets them drinks, settles down in his seat, and asks his next question.  

* * *

Al tries to talk to Keith a little more after that. The man doesn't usually say much, but when shown no hostility, he has a lot of interesting things to say. In fact, Al quickly finds out that the best way to learn about Lance's life out in space is to talk to Keith. He won't always go into detail, but he's more willing to share. Al thinks he understands why when he realizes that all of his stories are about Lance, how he made up this strategy that made everything easier, how he saved the day with a single shot, how he rescued Keith from a cluster of enemies that were about to overrun him. Everything emphasizes Lance's merit and skills. 

But there's nothing about Keith himself, not really, unless he's being rescued, or providing some backup. Now that he thinks about it, had they given him a chance to, had they actually  _asked_ about space instead of trying to make everything go back to how it was before Lance's disappearance, Al has no doubts that those stories would have featured Keith prominently. Because Lance may be a braggart, but never about the things that matter.

Keith seems a little wary at first. Al feels ashamed when he realizes that the man expects him to start dropping nasty comments like Aleja, or silently judge him like Mom and Elena, or simply stare in quiet disapproval like Dad and Tia Jacinta. He watches his words, careful not to say anything that might offend or be taken the wrong way. As days go by and Al keeps up with the cordial greetings, in spite of the others' frowns, he starts to relax a little. It _is_  difficult, sometimes. Al will find himself silently judging, or curling up his lips in a fledgling sneer when he hears something he doesn't like. Old habits die hard, as they say, and he's hated Keith even before meeting him. On principle. It takes time to flush all that resentment and dislike from his system, and keep an open mind. 

But Keith, he reminds himself, Keith did nothing to warrant it. And no one deserves to be treated like crap on stupid prejudices and preconceptions. Al is ashamed of himself when he realizes what he's been doing.  

Lance is visibly happy with this turn of events. He grins brightly at Al over his pancakes the first time Al smiles a greeting at Keith in the morning, and then engages the both of them in cheerful conversation. Unlike Keith, he opens up right away and starts to hang out with Al more, chattering away about some thing or another, alien words slipping through his babble which Keith quietly translates. And when his brother's arm slips around his shoulders and draws him close for the first time since his return, when he offers to teach him a few moves after a sparring session while sticking his tongue out at a snickering Keith, Al realizes just how much their silent condemnation of Keith has been pushing Lance away. 

Those two are a unit. Where one goes, so does the other, and where one is forbidden access, then so will the other stay out. 

Al can only breathe in silent relief when he realizes how close he came to totally losing Lance.

So when the family goes to the beach and Lance goes off to play with the kids, he sits next to Keith and keeps him company. The man is tense, partly from the proximity of the rest of them, partly from a specific kind of watchfulness Al has learned to associate with the war they just ended. His eyes are obscured by powerful sunglasses—Lance mentioned something about enhanced eyesight, but Al is sure they sweep over the beach regularly, checking for threats. 

Today, Keith's talking about one of their first missions, explaining how they were supposed to free a living planet from the Galra while making sure their shots couldn't hit the planet's surface. 

"Lance and I were supposed to make sure their fighters couldn't take off. I was all ready to burst in guns blazing, but Lance stopped me before I could do any damage."

"Why would that have been bad?"

"Well, my weapon was short range and I didn't want to hurt the Balmera, but that doesn't mean the Galra had the same problem. So Lance came up with a new strategy: sneak into the control room, shut the hangar doors. Fighters disabled, no exchange of fire." 

"You're the hot-headed one, huh?"

"I'm not the Guardian of Fire for no reason," Keith admits with a chuckle.

Al goes to ask about the others' elements, only to be interrupted by Mom.

"Did this happen often?" She frowns.

Keith turns to her, his expression polite, but carefully neutral. It's just as good, because there's something in Mom's tone that reminds Al of those days when she got summoned to the principal's office after he lathered glue all over his chemistry teacher's chair, and she was all polite until they were alone. That had  _not_ been a pleasant experience. 

"Did what happen often, ma'am?" 

"Lance pulling you out of trouble." _Did you put him in difficulty often?_ goes unsaid. _Are you the reason he has so many scars?_

"I like to think we got each other in and out of tough spots a fair few times over the years," Keith answers calmly. "Everybody makes mistakes." 

"Including you?" Aleja pipes in, returning Al's pointed frown with a glare of her own. She doesn't like his change in attitude, the fact that he seems to have accepted Keith. At the man's raised eyebrow, she elaborates. "He used to talk about you, at the Garrison. Perfect fighter pilot Keith, with his stupid mullet and his stupid grades and his stupid friendship with Shiro. He was ecstatic when you got kicked out.” A cruel little smile twists her lips.

Whatever she was expecting, it probably wasn’t Keith’s contented smile as he turns his eyes back to where Lance is currently busy being chased by a horde of kids while carrying Tim’s younger sister Julia on his shoulders.

“I bet he was.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Al inquires, feeling sincerely curious.

Keith actually chuckles at that. “Not in the least. Lance and I…” He pauses, hesitating. “Well. We used to have a complicated relationship.”

“Complicated as in…?” Mom pushes.

“As in we hated each other.”

“Then how did you get together?” Dad asks.

Keith shrugs. “Two years of teamwork, high compatibility, meddling aliens, and far too many near-death experiences on both sides. It brought us closer.”

A pause. “So, like… why you?”

Keith turns at that. It’s Aleja again, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed as she thinks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there were six other people on the ship, right? And he hated you. Why didn’t he go for the alien princess? She’s totally his type, from what he said. Or the buff leader, Shiro? Dude was his hero, why didn’t he go for him?” Keith opens his mouth, but she barrels forward, and Al’s known her long enough to recognize when she’s on a roll, looking to utterly destroy someone. She’ll tear Keith to pieces and laugh on his remains if nobody stops her. Al considers it, but… he really wants to know the answer to that question. “No, wait. I bet he did. He went for them, and for all the other aliens you met. Did he start flirting with you before, or after his stupid pickup lines failed on everybody else?”

"Aleja!" Al snaps, honestly angry this time. Her jaw falls shut with a click, but the damage is done, and the smile doesn't falter. Her narrowed eyes track Keith's movements, a sinister kind of satisfaction glittering in their depths. Al wants to slap her. Keith doesn't deserve this. He turns to him, to say something, anything to make the situation better—and it's crazy how fast the man has won him over once he actually bothered talking to him, but a single look tells him whatever he comes up with won't be heard. Keith is staring at Lance, fists clenching and unclenching in the sand. 

He doesn't say a word afterward.

* * *

"You need to back off," Al snarls that night. 

Aleja glares back defiantly, lips curling up into a sneer. True to character, she doesn't play innocent, doesn't deny anything.

"Why should I?"

"Keith doesn't deserve that shit."

"Yeah, let's talk about that, shall we? When did you become pals with the murderer, exactly?"

Al clenches his fists, reminds himself that he used to think like her, that he used to hate Keith.

"Don't call him that." 

"Why not?" 

"He's saved Lance's life several times, for one. We owe him." 

"And how many times was it his fault that Lance was in danger in the first place? If he hadn't attacked those scientists, Lance would never have disappeared." 

Al drags a hand over his face. Aleja's always had a gift for making him want to pull his hair out and strangle her all at the same time, and tonight's no different. But he really needs her to come around, because at this rate, Lance is going to head back to the stars before the others even realize he's pulled away from them. 

"Look, that's bullshit and you know it. Keith went to rescue Shiro alone. He had no idea Lance was there, and Lance was the one who decided to follow. But that's really not the issue here."

"I think it is. I also think you've been so busy buddying it up with your new friend that you forgot what he did."

"What the hell are you talking about now?" And he can't keep the weariness from his voice, he really can't. The constant tension around the house is draining. He wonders how Keith can take it, being judged and disapproved of wherever he goes and at every hour of the day.

"He took Lance from us! He put him in danger! Lance could have died!"

"Keith was in danger too. Or did you forget about his scars and how Lance had to listen to his heartbeat every night to make sure he was still alive?" 

"Yes, but he likes it! Our Lance would never hurt a fly!" 

Ah. Al flounders for a moment. There are so many things wrong with that statement, and he just... doesn't know where to start. 

"What, you think Keith revels in blood and destruction, and that he did something to Lance? Is that it?" 

She's got to hear how stupid it sounds, because she remains silent, but the stubborn set to her jaw doesn't alleviate. Al sighs, runs one hand down his face tiredly. 

"Look, sis. This is ridiculous. The truth is, you have no reason whatsoever to dislike Keith. It's not his fault that Lance changed. The truth is, it's been seven years. Seven years of war, might I add. There's no way he was going to come back the same. You need to accept the man he's become, and that includes backing off when it comes to Keith." 

"Why? You think he'd choose  _him_ over us? Lance would never do that!" 

"Maybe not the Lance who disappeared," Al says, his tone very gentle. "But this Lance is different. He's been through hell and back with Keith. They've been partners for years, and they've probably saved each other's life more times than they can count. Those bonds tend to be the strongest." 

She scoffs disdainfully, but he can feel her caving, if just a little. 

"And what would you know about it, huh?" 

Al allows himself a small smile, and cautiously perches himself by her side on the bed. 

"Well, I've been talking to Keith, for one. He's got a lot of stories about Lance saving him. And I'm sure Lance has a mountain of missions to ramble about where Keith saved his butt, too." 

"I'll believe that when I hear him tell them. It's not like he's been talking to us or anything, is it?"

"Did you ask about it?"

Her silence is eloquent.

"Exactly. Then he saw our reaction to Keith—don't kid yourself, he can't not have noticed, and that's not very encouraging, is it?" He pauses. "Truth is, it's been very clear that we expected the old Lance back. So he's been trying very hard, but that doesn't mean he _is_ the old Lance. He's not. He's an adult now, a grown man who's seen much more than we ever will. He's traveled further than any other human before him, fellow Paladins excluded, and he's been fighting a war. Through all this, Keith was at his side. And I don't claim to understand their relationship, but we won't separate them." 

Al shoots her a small, sad smile.

"If we can't adjust, we'll just force him to choose. I don't want him to have to make that decision, Aleja. It wouldn't be fair to him." 

"He wouldn't pick us, would he?" 

Al lays a careful hand on her knee, then stands up. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. It's not Keith's fault." One hand on the door handle, he turns. "Talk to him. He's not that bad, you'll see." 

He counts the utter lack of conviction in the "yeah, right" that follows as a win. 

* * *

The problem is, Keith barely seems to be around in the following days. Al catches a glimpse of his back a couple times early in the morning, but he's never in the house during the day, and they all retire before he comes back. At first, Lance says nothing about it, but it’s obvious that he notices. He looks around whenever he walks into a room, and even when he’s involved in conversation or games with one of them, he’ll glance about. But Keith’s nowhere to be seen. That frown starts to make its comeback on Lance’s brow. The rest of the family couldn’t be happier. Aleja, Al is please to notice, only frowns. 

And at dinner, two days after their conversation, she turns to Lance and asks: "So, wanna tell us about your crappiest mission?" 

Lance's eyebrows twitch up, but he grins and launches into the tale of planet Kateria Tu, and how he totally didn't get his ass saved by the red paladin just as he was about to become freaky dinosaur-bat hybrid snack. Al smirks. Just as he thought, Lance's stories are all about Keith and how awesome he is. Although you have to be able to read between the lines. The rest of the meal passes quickly after that as they listen enraptured to tales of planets billions of light years away, aliens and cultures vastly different from their own, space malls and hilarious mishaps mixed in with daring rescues and grueling battles. 

It almost sounds like a novel. Al knows Lance probably tones it down a little for them: the scars on his and Keith's body enough of a testament to the very real danger they've been through, but he also manages to make it sound like an epic odyssey rather than the war that left its marks on him. 

Fueled by their questions, Lance keeps going long after the meal is over. They move over to the porch, sipping cups of hot coffee, and listen intently. It's the first time Lance has opened up since his return. Like Al suspected, they only had to ask, and there's much to be gathered from what he has to say. The best part, however, comes when he whips out his device to show them pictures. Keith's in most if not all of them, in what they assume is the Paladin uniform, standing very straight as he watches the white haired woman from the hologram—Allura, Lance says, talk to a yellow alien with four arms and a razor-sharp smile. Reclining on his arms as he watches a blood red sky, the floor under him similarly colored. The two of them in magnificent attire, dancing in a grand hall amidst a crowd of aliens. The team floating in 0-G, Pidge frowning at a holo-screen, Hunk eating something purple, the Alteans laughing brightly, and Keith looking cool with his arms crossed, although there's a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he mock-glares at the camera. There are strange landscapes, aliens, group pictures in all kinds of settings. 

The best one, though, the one that really gives an insight as to Keith's personality, is the last one. He's crouching on the ground, surrounded by small aliens that can only be children. They're all over him, one perched atop his head, two on his shoulders, more clinging to his arms and legs. He's grinning at them, his hands frozen mid-motion, eyes exaggeratedly wide, obviously telling a story. The look on the kids' faces is of pure adoration. 

And here's the thing. Each and every one of them is fluent in Lance-ese. They know how to look beyond his words, how to interpret his silences and his roundabout ways of saying something. Or, well, they used to. And there may be some new words in Lance's very own language, some new inflexions and turns of sentences, but they all hear that Keith put just as much effort into keeping Lance alive as Lance did to keep him breathing. And they're probably not aware of it, but their faces don't tighten nearly as much when they hear his name. It's difficult to hate a man who can look this at home with a gaggle of alien children using him as a climbing tree. 

"Wait, scar contests?" Elena scrunches up her nose. "That's morbid."

Lance shrugs, grinning. "Well, you know, up in space? Not much to do when you have downtime. And if we're going to have them, then at least we should do something with them, right?" 

Mom looks a little green at that, and Elena's gone pale. 

"So who won?" 

Lance hums. "Well, until recently, it was Shiro. Dude almost lost his other arm back on Kel'Tekis. Slav was ecstatic, thought our chances of survival would increase by 300% if he got another prosthetic." He snickers a little, as he usually does when it comes to the tumultuous relationship between the black paladin and the paranoid engineer. 

"Until recently?" 

The smile falters. "Keith's winning for now." 

"He is? Oh wait, do you mean the scar on his side?" 

Heads turn to Elena in silent inquiry. "I saw it when they were sparring. He's got a huge scar on his right side, like something ripped straight—" 

"Straight through him, yeah," Lance interrupts, and his voice is... rough. All the mirth is gone from his eyes. He swallows hard as they all stare expectantly at him, finger tapping a nervous rhythm on the wooden tabletop. 

"What happened?" Mom asks softly, almost timidly. Like Lance is a spooked animal who needs to be coaxed into compliance. Back before he vanished, Al's sure it would have worked, but Lance is different now, and for a moment, it seems like he's going to shut down this line of conversation. But then, something flickers in his eyes, and he heaves a sigh, rubs his eyes. Suddenly, he looks very old, and very tired. 

"We were on a mission. The last scheduled before our vacation to Earth, actually. Standard raid on a prisoner ship. Sneak in, free the prisoners, lead them out, destroy the ship. They caught on to us halfway out. I escorted the prisoners to the pods while Keith held the Galra back. Everything was going well enough. We fought together as we made our way back to Red and Blue. There were a lot of them, but we're used to it. I let my guard down. Keith paid the price." 

The table is very silent. 

"I didn't notice the Galra commander until it was too late," Lance explains in a shaky voice. "Keith saw. He pushed me out of the way." 

Al's heart aches for his brother as he listens to the story. He already knows where it's going, of course. They all do. 

"He took the blow for me. I—" he licks his lips, "Keith's strong. The strongest of us, really. Even Shiro. But that day, he just collapsed on top of me like a broken doll, and he just... lay there with his side torn open. His helmet shattered, there were pieces of it into his face, and there was so much blood. It wouldn't stop pooling on the floor. And all I could think was 'this is it. This is how I lose him.'" he pauses again, forces himself to breathe. "And that idiot... instead of letting himself pass out like any sane person would, you know what he did? He told me to go back to my family. To not wait for him, and to just go. He wouldn't stop moving until I swore. He didn't think he'd make it." 

Al's throat hurts with repressed tears, his eyes burn. He can't bring himself to blink. 

"But he did," Mom says, and her voice is very, very soft. 

"He was in the pod for weeks," Lance chokes out. "It's only a couple days at most usually, but even Altean tech had a hard time fixing everything. We almost... we almost didn't get him to one in time." 

He hides his face in his hands, but it does little to conceal the tears now slipping through his fingers and onto the table. Silence falls over the group as they wait for him to pull himself together. When he looks up, there's a newfound determination in his face, and Al knows instinctively that  _this is it._  

"I know you don't like him," Lance says, voice only trembling in the slightest. "I know you think he's too different, that he's dangerous, whatever. And you're right, somewhat. But I'm dangerous, too. And I know he's not very approachable, and sometimes a little rude, and he doesn't speak much, but I swear to you. This man is  _good_. He's pure and gentle and fiercely loyal, and he's my chosen. And I need you to trust me in this. Trust my judgement."

When he stands and leaves the room, no one tries to stop him. Al looks around, and nods to himself through his daze. Maybe, just maybe, they finally will try.

* * *

When Keith returns the next day, Lance is waiting for him. They disappear into his room for a long moment, and when they come out, Keith doesn't leave again. This time, Lance sticks to his side like glue, ever vigilant, and his eyes, when they sit down for lunch, tell them there will be no second chance. He watches like a hawk, blue eyes—sharpshooter, Keith called him, and Al can totally see it—ready to catch the slightest hint of aggression. The time for leniency has passed. And it's not smooth, it really isn't. If anything, the atmosphere's awkward as hell, with them all going out of their way to check their instinctive reactions and include Keith into the conversation. Al gets it, really. He's still not out of that initial uneasy phase himself, but he's getting better. 

But they're all willing to try, and that's all they really need to make this work. 

**Author's Note:**

> This... wasn't supposed to turn out the way it did. Oh well. I hope it wasn't too messy. I just kept seeing stories about Lance's family being awesome and welcoming both him and Keith with arms wide open out there. But what if they didn't? What if they had trouble accepting who Lance had become?
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://tangodancer91.tumblr.com/)!


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